BABY & THE BEAST

by Laura Wright

  He looked down at the baby, with her amazing blue eyes. Of course, most babies had blue eyes when they were born, but they didn't all have such an adorable expression or such a beautiful mother.

  He couldn't stop the smile that broke across his face. Dammit, he hadn't done this much smiling in his whole life. "I think it's a perfect name for a perfect little girl," he acquiesced gruffly.

  Bella glowed with pride. "She is perfect, isn't she?"

  Michael just stood there, watching them, wonder coursing through his veins. But when mother and child yawned with fatigue he forced his emotion back and returned to work mode.

  After a mild flurry of post-birth cleanup and fresh sheets, Emily's and Bella's eyes drifted closed, long lashes resting against contented faces.

  He walked over to the fire, his leg knotted with pain, and fell into his chair. Of all the things he'd accomplished in his life, bringing little Emily into the world and placing her in her mother's arms was his greatest achievement.

  And he knew that nothing would ever come close to rivaling it.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  The storm raged from morning into the gloomy darkness of afternoon. But Isabella awoke from a much-needed nap feeling only warm and safe and content. Sure, her muscles were slow, and everything below her neck felt stiff and sore, but she'd never felt happier.

  And it was all because just a few hours ago, she'd become a mother.

  The thought continued to make her smile, not to mention make her forget where she was. She honestly didn't care if the snow ever let up or if she ever left Michael's glass house or if her pastry shop had Christmas buns before Christmas—she just wanted to hang on to this incredible moment in time for as long as it would allow. Although she would have welcomed Doc Pinta's agreement that her motherly instincts were right—that everything was just as it should be. But she would have to wait a day or two for that.

  Emily fussed in her arms, and Isabella rocked her and cooed sweet words—true words. Her blue-eyed bundle responded instantly, blowing a spit bubble as she stared up at her. Then her little round face scrunched up. It didn't take long for Isabella to read the signs and understand what her daughter wanted.

  This would be her first time breast-feeding, and Isabella couldn't stop the worrisome tingle in her stomach. During her pregnancy, she'd read everything on the subject and had talked to several nursing mothers. She'd always felt informed and ready. But now, as she opened her robe and guided her child to her breast, she hoped their advice had stuck with her.

  But she needn't have been apprehensive. Emily nuzzled as she found her way. At first, there was just a hint of pain, but it slowly subsided. And as her little girl suckled contentedly, finding her own special rhythm, Isabella believed this beautiful process was the most natural thing in the world.

  And a moment she wished she could share.

  She glanced up. Across the room, sleeping in the velvet chair by the fire, was her knight—minus the shining armor. It seemed that while she and Emily had been resting, Michael had taken off his shirt and hadn't put on a clean one. Not that she minded in the least.

  As Emily took her first meal, Isabella let her gaze travel over him. His jet-black hair was mussed from work and sleep, his rugged features were relaxed, and his square jaw was dark with stubble. Her pulse jumped as her gaze moved downward to his chest. He was powerfully built with wide shoulders, a trim waist and a V of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

  Her hands itched to touch, her heart longed for him to be closer, but her mind kept those yearnings in check.

  He lay there, sound asleep, his breathing as even as her child's. Lord, he certainly deserved the rest. He'd worked hard. He'd kept his promise and brought them both through the night safely. She'd never forget how he'd looked when he'd handed Emily to her.

  Proud.

  And so handsome.

  And in the moment, in that moment when life had felt perfect, she'd wished that he was Emily's father and her husband. But she'd shooed the thought away as quickly as it had come. Michael was just a friend, and she needed to remember that while they endured these forced living conditions. He was a friend, and the man who had just paid a debt he'd never truly owed to her in the first place.

  On a soft sigh, she forced her gaze away from her sleeping gladiator and put all her focus back on her daughter.

  But in that velvet chair, the gladiator was far from asleep.

  His eyes closed, Michael listened. It seemed that with every move, every sound Bella and Emily made, a deeper and more profound sense of protectiveness and closeness filled him. The feeling was completely foreign and not necessarily welcome, but he couldn't help acknowledging it.

  When he'd first heard the sound of Emily suckling at her mother's breast, he'd been in turmoil. Questions had raced through his mind. Should he leave the room or stay? What right did he have to invade this private world? But his need to be close to them had superceded any sense of inappropriateness.

  Just then, the ache in his thigh deepened and he had to move. As quietly as he could, he shifted forward in the chair and stretched out his leg.

  "Michael?"

  Her call had him cursing softly. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to disturb the peaceful mood that had settled over the room. But he couldn't ignore her.

  He turned to look at her. "Yes?"

  "I thought you were sleeping."

  "My leg's a little cramped."

  "Well, as long as you're awake—" she patted the empty space beside her "—I wouldn't mind some company."

  His gut twisted. He was safe over here, safe to be part of the scenery and nothing more.

  "You can stretch out your leg," she continued.

  "Are you sure?" he said, hearing the slight edge in his voice.

  "Yes, of course."

  All thoughts of impropriety floated up the chimney like smoke from the fire. Whether it was wise or not, he wanted to be close to them tonight, wanted to share what she was so willing to give. This storm had made it possible for him to forget his past and his anger for a little while. It had thrust all of them into some kind of dreamworld. And who was he to break the spell? After all, it'd break on its own soon enough without any help from him. In a couple of days Bella would leave with Emily, and he'd resume his normal way of life.

  His jaw tight at that thought, he walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. Emily was snuggled against Bella's breast, content in her meal.

  Isabella smiled up at him. "You must be exhausted."

  He shook his head. "I'm fine. What about you?"

  "I feel wonderful. Tired, but wonderful." Her gaze drifted to the window. "The storm seems to be lingering." She turned back to him. "Looks like you're stuck with us for a little while longer."

  "And it looks like you're stuck with my cooking for a little while longer."

  She laughed and glanced down at Emily. "Well, one of us, anyway."

  Without thinking, Michael followed her line of vision. Emily's eyes were closed as she suckled. Bella looked so natural, so beautiful with her breast bared and a soft smile on her lips. It was the sweetest sight he'd ever seen. The sweetest and the—

  He stood up and drove a hand through his hair. Hell, no. He'd be damned before he'd put a name to that feeling.

  Was he going crazy? Had this snowstorm brought dementia, as well as ghosts from his past? He needed to get out of this room for a while, away from this intimacy that drew him like a bear to honey.

  "Why don't I go make you something?" he offered. "You must be hungry."

  "I know I should be starving. I just had a few bites of sandwich last night before Emily came knocking. But I'm really not."

  "You need to keep up your strength. The storm and the baby—that's a lot in two days."

  Her eyes softened, and she gave him a small smile. "Don't go."

  It felt like steel beams were being pressed against his chest. There wa
s nothing he wanted more than to be with her at that moment. And that made him nervous.

  Over the years he'd been no monk. Whenever he traveled, women were near. They knew who he was, they were wary of his reputation, but the fact that he was a millionaire several times over usually turned caution into curiosity.

  Although he remained aloof, he respected women and was always up front with them, letting them know he didn't have serious relationships. The women who came to his bed had been all right with that arrangement, and after a night or two of pleasure they would part on good terms.

  Above all, he avoided needing anyone or being needed. And he could see that need, that emotional tractor beam, in Bella's eyes right now. Hell, he felt it himself, and it made him even more determined to put some distance between them.

  "I'm going to make you another sandwich," he insisted with a trace of a growl.

  Regret lit her eyes, but it quickly passed and she nodded. "All right. But after that I want you to get some sleep."

  He nodded and left the room. The ache in his thigh traveled like a brushfire down his leg as he walked through the hallway. But his thoughts burned even more.

  She wanted him to get some sleep.

  He shook his head as he entered the kitchen and uttered the word "lights." If he slept at all, he was going to be doing it in that chair by the fire in her room. Because even though his mind warned him to stay as far away from her as possible, his sense of duty won out. As long as she and Emily were in his house, they were his responsibility.

  But how could he explain that to her? he wondered as he put a mug of water into the microwave and muttered, "Boil." And how could he explain to himself the depth of protectiveness that raged inside him?

  How was he going to get rid of it before it swallowed him whole?

  *

  Later that day Isabella woke from another nap to feed and change Emily's towel-diaper. She was just about to go into the bathroom and wash up when Michael walked into the room, pushing some kind of cart.

  "What in the world is that?" Isabella asked.

  He looked at her, his expression serious. "It's a bed for Emily."

  Her mouth dropped open, but she quickly recovered. While she inspected the two-level cart, her heart softened. Michael had made this for her daughter. This sexy, bristly man had made a cradle for her baby.

  After bringing her a sandwich a couple of hours ago, he'd told her that he had some work to do. With his reclusive ways, she really hadn't expected to see him again until evening. But he'd surprised her.

  Something he'd been doing a lot of over the past few days.

  "How did you do this?" she asked, switching a fussy Emily to her other arm.

  "I unscrewed the top shelf of a computer cart and secured one of my housekeeper's wicker laundry baskets in its place. Then I reworked a feather pillow to make a soft lining and covered the whole thing in a clean sheet." He glanced up at her. "Do you think it'll be all right?"

  Isabella couldn't help but smile. Did she think it would be all right? It was amazing. The contraption looked sturdy and safe. A perfect place to change Emily, and a perfect bed for her, too. And with wheels on all four corners, the cart was mobile. "It's just wonderful. Thank you."

  He nodded. "I also cut up some more towels for diapers." He gestured to the lower shelf neatly stacked with makeshift diapers.

  She shook her head. "You've thought of everything."

  He shrugged nonchalantly. "Just trying to take good care of my guests."

  "You've given us the best of care, Michael."

  Michael stared at her, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her mouth, then back again. "I'm going to make some dinner." Her eyes went a soft gray. "No sandwiches tonight. I think you deserve to have a real dinner."

  His thoughtfulness only made her longing intensify. "Would it be too much to ask you to take Emily?"

  "Take her?" Wariness filled his tone.

  "I'd love to have a hot shower."

  "I don't know anything about babies, Bella. I—"

  "You'll be fine." She gave him a reassuring smile. "You're the one who helped bring Emily into the world. I trust you."

  He plunged a hand through his hair and walked over to the bed. "All right. But if she can't stand me, I'm coming to get you. In the shower or out."

  Her breath caught as a ripple of wonder moved through her. Neither one spoke for a moment, and she wondered if he was going to take his promise back or at least clarify it. But he didn't. "Dinner should be ready in a half hour."

  Her tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip. "Okay."

  Michael's gaze followed the movement, then he exhaled heavily and leaned down. "I'll see you in a half hour," he said as he backed up with Emily in his arms.

  She felt heat blast into her cheeks. What was wrong with her? she wondered as she watched Michael gently place Emily in the basket, then wheel her out the door. Acting like a silly schoolgirl, instead of a new mother.

  On a dejected sigh, she pulled back the comforter and headed for the bathroom. Her adolescent crush was blossoming into full-fledged hankering, and if she didn't get out of this house soon, she'd be in serious danger of that hankering growing into something stronger.

  Something that wouldn't diminish in a few days like the early winter storm that raged outside.

  *

  Isabella remained under the hot spray for a good twenty minutes, loosening up her stiff and sore muscles before lathering and shampooing her way to squeaky clean.

  After blow-drying her hair and changing into a pair of sweats that Michael had given her, she left the room feeling refreshed, but missing Emily terribly. How strange that in less than a day she couldn't envision her life without Emily, she thought as she walked down the glass hallway.

  Opera music played and the scent of baked chicken spilled through the rooms she passed, growing in pungency as she approached the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled as she paused in the doorway, her gaze fixed on the scene in front of her.

  On the stove, green beans simmered in a pan and steam rose off what appeared to be a chicken casserole. But the real show was happening on the tile floor. A handsome six-foot-four giant in a red apron stood next to the center island cradling a soft, cooing baby in his arms, arms threaded with muscle beneath the black T-shirt he wore.

  As he swayed to the music with Emily blinking up at him and blowing spit bubbles, Isabella's heart dipped. They looked so right together, so content, and she ached to join them. But this was no family moment, and she wouldn't pretend it was. She had more than her own heart to consider now.

  "Arthur Murray?" she asked lightly as she walked toward them. "Twenty lessons?"

  He stopped moving immediately, his expression and manner going from relaxed to tense in two seconds fiat. "She was crying. It seemed to help." He raised a brow at her. "And I didn't want to interrupt your shower."

  Isabella nodded. "Thanks." I think.

  He placed Emily in Isabella's arms and walked over to the stove, his limp even more obvious than yesterday. His leg was obviously bothering him and yet he'd just been dancing to soothe her child. Isabella fought the longing that surged through her at that realization, along with the urge to ask if he wanted to sit and rest while she did the cooking. But as their relationship was a little tenuous, she didn't want to risk offending him.

  Instead, she took a seat at the kitchen table and inhaled deeply. "Smells wonderful."

  "Thank God my housekeeper packed a few of these away in the freezer," he said, pointing to the casserole. "This one's called roast chicken surprise."

  "My favorite."

  He glanced over his shoulder. "I thought chicken soup with stars was your favorite."

  She laughed. "It was—when I was thirteen."

  "Ah. But now that you're all grown up, you've chosen a far more sophisticated entrée for your favorite?"

  "Exactly."

  Amusement glimmered in those steely eyes of his. "You know, you look like one of those cooking
show chefs in that apron," she said as she placed Emily in her new cradle.

  "And you look…" He paused and she glanced up to see his gaze traveling over her. "Well, you look damn good in my sweats."

  Her gaze fell, heat flooding her cheeks. "Thanks, but I know what I must look like."

  "And what's that?"

  "Tired and … well, like I just had a baby."

  "Listen to me, Bella." His tone forced her eyes to meet his. "I don't think I've ever seen a woman more beautiful."

  She stared at him for a moment. And then she began to chuckle. She couldn't help it. "That's so not true."

  "I can think of a few surefire ways to convince you."

  Michael felt all the lightheartedness that had filled him just a moment ago fall away as if he'd been caught laughing at a funeral. Bella stared at him again, heat filling her sexy blue eyes. Was she going to ask him what those ways were? And if she did, would he tell her the truth?

  Behind her, Emily started to fuss, breaking the mood. Bella turned to her daughter and Michael went back to fixing dinner.

  "What's this she's wearing for a diaper?" Bella asked after a few moments.

  Michael didn't turn around. "It's a T-shirt. I changed her. The towels are too bulky."

  "What does it say on it?"

  "'Computer Programmers Know How to Use Their Hardware,'" he said dryly. "My housekeeper gives me a different one every Christmas. I'm sure she has another one all picked out for this year. She thinks they're very funny. Personally, I think it's funny that she actually believes I'm going to wear them."

  "So you've made them into diapers?"

  "Yes."

  She laughed. "Sounds reasonable."

  He set a plate of chicken and green beans in front of her.

  "You're not eating with me?" she asked, taking a seat at the table.

  "I don't—"

  "I know, I remember—you don't eat with anyone." Her eyes grew thoughtful. "Someday I'm going to ask you why."

  He sat down across from her and lifted a brow. "And maybe someday I'll tell you."

  Bella ate slowly, but she ate all of it and he was glad. She needed food and rest, and he was going to make sure she got plenty of both.